


all of the days (that we spend apart)

by Pidonyx



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Post-SING (Music Video), Re-Education, Soulmate AU, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, THE KILLJOYS ARE NOT MCR, its kind of an amnesia fic....kinda a soulmate au....., the violence warning is for a clap at the end just to be safe, welcome to headcanon central!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26077603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pidonyx/pseuds/Pidonyx
Summary: Ghoul hasn’t been the same since they brought him back.
Relationships: Fun Ghoul/Party Poison (Danger Days)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 54





	all of the days (that we spend apart)

**Author's Note:**

> hello all! i’ve been trying to get this up for a few days but getting it finished was rough and it just kept getting longer and longer so now it’s 5.5k words of nonsense.
> 
> anyways! remember when i said someone write a soulmate au or i’d do it myself? well
> 
> big thank you to my sister and to my friend Jordan (costumejail/@sleevesareforlosers on tumblr) for beta!!
> 
> feel free to talk to me on tumblr either on my main blog @ghostxraven or my art blog @ravenxbones !!
> 
> title from superstar by marina

He’s not the same. _Well, no shit he isn’t the same._

But that’s not the worst part, even though it’s by far worse than sitting and waiting and not being able to do anything, clinging to the minuscule assurance that at the very least, Ghoul was alive, because Poison could still see the vibrant red of his hair when the greasy strands fell in his eyes, see the colors of the Girl’s drawings, of the desert sand and sky, the green of Ghoul’s vest and zap where he’d taken extra care to fold them over the back of the booth. For when he came back. But now he _is_ back, and he doesn’t remember, and that already is Poison’s worst nightmare come true, that they’d been too late in trying to get him out of the City, he’d already been reconditioned. The actual worst part is that the Better Living doctors who did it to him somehow erased the matching mark that he’s supposed to have, the mirror of Poison’s —on his wrist, where Poison’s fingertips had brushed over it the first time they’d been back-to-back in a firefight — back when they’d first become friends enough that Poison allowed Ghoul close. He’d passed Ghoul his raygun — because Ghoul could shoot two-handed and he couldn’t, and Kobra had needed help getting an injured Jet back to the Trans Am — and in the process accidentally touched skin-to-skin, leaving vibrant, shifting streaks in the wake, and then he could see the brightness of them too as the world flooded with color.

That doesn’t matter, now, though, because while Poison can still see in technicolor, Ghoul can’t — hadn’t been able to identify the difference between Jet and Kobra’s rayguns without the designs on them. And his mark is gone. His mark is gone, and it makes Poison sick every time he looks down and sees that blank space on Ghoul’s wrist. It was _theirs_ , and Poison _loves_ him, and now he doesn’t even have that reminder that they’re bound together by fate to give some comfort to the fact that Ghoul doesn’t remember who he is.

He clenches his hand into a fist, hiding the iridescent brightness of his mark in the fold of his palm and taking a shaky breath before exiting his room. Their room. What used to be their room. Ghoul hasn’t slept there since they brought him back, almost a week ago.

Ghoul’s sitting in the booth, though on the opposite side of where his vest and holster are still draped, gathering dust. He hasn’t touched them since the first day, when Poison pressed them into Ghoul’s arms, saying, with an edge of desperation, _“these are yours, do you remember?”_ knowing full well he didn’t. Ghoul isn’t _doing_ anything, not even scratching at the chipped lacquered surface. He’s been like that. Quiet, still. It’s so unnerving that it makes Poison feel jumpy just being in the room with him. It doesn’t help that he doesn’t even look like himself, his hair having been cropped into a Batt City-standard, uniform cut, short around the ears and just barely falling across his eyes. This isn’t _his_ Fun Ghoul, it’s a shell, far more similar to the chemically calm ‘Crow trainee he used to know. That doesn’t stop Poison from trying though. And _fuck_ , has he been trying.

“Hi, Ghoulie,” he says, gently so as not to startle him (if this version of Ghoul can be startled). As much as this new Ghoul makes Poison want to scream and break things and shred every piece of fabric in the building with his bare hands, he can’t take it out on him. It isn’t his fault, Poison isn’t going to do that to him again, even if Ghoul doesn’t remember Poison doing it the first time. Poison slides into the seat across from where Ghoul is staring blankly down at the tabletop. He can feel the hard edge of Ghoul’s raygun pressing slightly into his spine, the thick military-grade fabric and metal buttons of the vest against his shoulders and hair. “You sleep okay last night?”

Ghoul nods, a single down-up movement, and otherwise doesn’t twitch. Poison’s chest feels tight. “Tha’s good,” he murmurs, and his voice sounds gravelly. “‘Member anythin’ t’day?” he asks, even though he doesn’t even have to look up to see Ghoul shake his head once ‘no’. Except he doesn’t do that. Instead, he tilts his head to the side.

Poison’s heart leaps into his throat so fast he thinks he might be sick.

“Is there a place called the Crash Track?” Ghoul’s voice is almost a whisper it’s so quiet, but it’s the most he’s said at one time since they got him out, and the wave of relief that surges up makes Poison feel lightheaded. Ghoul remembers something. And it’s something that actually lines up with what Poison knows, something he can maybe help with.

“Yeah,” he says, shakily, almost as quietly as Ghoul. “Yeah. Tha’s where Kobra races. Y’know? An’, an’ we go t’ watch him sometimes. You more ‘n me, makes me nervous. But. Yeah. Do — “ He swallows. There’s a stickiness in the back of his mouth. “D’ you wan’ me t’ take you there?” There’s a sickly kind of hope bubbling in his chest, one that almost makes him feel worse rather than better.

Ghoul’s head stays tilted to the side, but he says, “okay,” in that same quiet voice.

Poison’s hands shake when he’s sort-of-kinda bundled Ghoul out and into the car, turning the key in the ignition to the ‘Am, but he has Ghoul in the seat next to him again, and that’s something.

They don’t talk on the way to the Crash Track. Even so, it feels so close to normal that Poison catches himself reaching for Ghoul more than once, just to gently rest fingers on his knee or hold his hand, like he normally would, but it’s not like normal, and he needs to remember that. The third time he finds himself with his hand outstretched over Ghoul’s thigh, stuttering to a halt, Ghoul catches his hand with both of his and turns it over to inspect the palm. Poison flinches when Ghoul’s eyes jump immediately to the multicolor marks, almost like paint stains or ink, stretching from the very tips of his fingers to the inside of the second knuckle on the index and middle fingers and just showing up on the pads of his ring and pinky. He knows the question is coming and still can’t quite brace for it.

“What’s this?” Ghoul asks. It’s the most emotion Poison’s heard from him in a week, and it still only barely qualifies as mild interest.

Poison opens his mouth, and nothing comes out. He swallows hard, licking his lips, and manages to whisper, “‘S, um. My soulmark.”

“Oh,” Ghoul says, voice still just barely toeing over the edge of ‘flat’ into ‘polite’. “I didn’t know those were real.”

It’s all Poison can do not to crash the car right there, even though there’s almost nothing around them, even though for a moment he really, really wants to. He pulls the Trans Am to a shaky halt and presses his forehead to the steering wheel for a moment.

Ghoul stays quiet for a moment, then asks, still polite, “Who has the other one?”

Poison knocks his forehead hard against the wheel. He can’t answer for a long minute, breathing roughly, focusing on trying to hold back little gasping sobs that are doing their best to claw out of his vocal chords. He doesn’t do a very good job apparently, because when he glances up at Ghoul’s face briefly, his eyes are wide, and Poison bites down on his bottom lip until the salty metal tang of blood drips onto his tongue.

“You. —Did,” he amends hastily. “You did.” His voice wobbles pathetically on the last word, and he can’t help it, he brushes his fingers over the spot on Ghoul’s left wrist where their marks used to line up perfectly.

“Oh,” Ghoul says again, softly. Poison curls into a ball in the driver’s seat and shivers until he stops feeling like he’s going to bawl his eyes out in front of a killjoy who doesn’t know anything about him or the Zones.

“Were we in love?” Ghoul asks, maybe a little more cautious but still too unaffected, too nonchalant about something that hurts so badly.

“Very much.” Poison’s voice is wet. He covers his eyes with his arm, swiping across his face. “We were married. Um. I guess we still are.” He doesn’t know if he’s speaking loud enough for Ghoul to hear. Ghoul doesn’t answer, so it’s hard to tell. Poison steels himself, and sits up enough to reach over and tug at the edge of Ghoul’s sleeve. He pulls it up high enough that the words on the inside of Ghoul’s forearm are visible, lightly pressing a shaking finger to the starting letter.

“I wrote that,” Poison says, voice cracking. “For you. Jus’. Jus’ because, nothin’ special. An’ you got it done, ‘cause — y’ said it meant a lot t’ you, an’,” he inhales unsteadily. “An’ you said it reminded you ‘f me.”

Ghoul traces the looping letters of _‘I love you’_ , dragging the blunt edge of his nail down to where _‘back soon, xo Party <3’ _ is signed with a flourish. He looks up. “Party Poison, that’s your full name, right?”

“Yeah.” Poison presses back into the corner of the leather seat as far as he can fit. “Family calls me Party. But you an’ I weren’t on. Um. The bes’ terms when we met. So y’ called me Poison, like everyone else, an’ it stuck, even, y’know, when we got closer. An’ I don’ mind. I like it, really, y’know, ‘cause when you call me Party ‘s special.” He hides his face in his knees to cut off the words spilling off his tongue, way more than he meant to say.

When he chances a glance up, Ghoul is looking back down at his arm, an almost thoughtful expression on his face. “Do I have more tattoos for you? Or for...” he pauses for a moment, brows knitting, and makes hesitant eye contact. “Ko...bra? Right? Or...Jet?”

Poison’s chest aches again. He doesn’t say anything, but puts his finger on each spot there’s a little bit of them, and their crew. Three killjoy symbols across his chest. Twin rayguns on his collarbone. More of Poison’s writing, Ghoul’s nickname, on his upper arm. Two anniversaries on his right wrist. One of the Girl’s drawings on his hip.

There are plenty more, obviously, but those are the ones Ghoul asked about. Ghoul seems fascinated, turning his arms over, pulling at his shirt collar so he can see the ink spreading over his skin. He stops, though, abruptly, and looks over at Poison, head still downturned, so it’s hard to see his face behind the curtain of dark hair that falls across it. “Are a lot of these in color...?” He asks, bordering on meek.

Poison draws a sharp breath through his teeth. He’d kind of forgotten that that’d been taken too, somehow. That makes him stop short, though, eyes sweeping over the splashes of dark ink and skin-settled hues. Even as he nods dumbly, and watches Ghoul’s mouth pull into a slight frown, he wonders how he didn’t notice sooner. They didn’t take his tattoos, not even the ones with Poison’s name literally inked into them. Just the marks of their soulbond. He feels ill, all of a sudden, and rolls down the window. This is purposeful, it has to be. BLI doesn’t do anything without intent. Poison thinks back to the rescue, how few Dracs they’d had to fight through compared to when they went into Batt City for the Girl. This time had been a much less narrow escape, and now that he’s thinking about it, for real, the more he’s realizing they essentially let them go. Better Living wanted their crew to find Ghoul, because they knew that it would hurt them that much more for Ghoul to not remember and be with them than to be a prisoner, but still with hope of rescue. They knew it would hurt Poison. They wanted him to give up.

Poison grits his teeth and tightens his own grip on his arm, nails biting into the flesh and muscle. “‘M not gonna give up on you,” he says, quiet, but he tries to push a firmness into his tone, so that wherever Ghoul is, in there behind the blank slate, he’ll hear him. He can feel Ghoul’s eyes on him, even though he keeps his own burning into the grip of the steering wheel. “I love you. An’ I know you can’t say ‘t back right now. But I wan’ you t’ know that I do, an’ I’ll wait. Until y’ can come back.”

Ghoul doesn’t respond to that, and Poison doesn’t wait for him to, just shifts the ‘Am into drive and presses back on the gas.

The Crash Track is uneventful. It’s mostly empty, since it’s the middle of the day, and the sun is burning down, with a few lone over-eager crash queens cleaning their bikes for that evening’s events. Ghoul looks around, walking through the whole place, touching a few things, like the protective rail between the stands and the track, and the place where bikes are usually parked, the dusty wall declaring it in peeling paint “RACERS ONLY”. He says it feels familiar, but there’s nothing concrete, and Poison drives them back to the Diner feeling almost as despondent as he had that morning. 

Not quite, though. Because it’s something, and Poison is determined to hold on to what’s his with all he’s got. He’s not letting Ghoul go. And that leaves a tiny bead of hope, burning in the bottom of his ribcage, buried under the oozing hurt that’s surrounded everything since they brought Ghoul home only to have him look at everything in their shared space without recognition.

The next morning, Poison slides his commitment band back onto his wrist. He’s ashamed that he even took it off, feeling sick and guilty on top of everything else, but he twists his fingers in the beads and holds it against his mouth when it’s back on, breathing for a moment to calm the roar of emotion in his head. It’s been lying on Ghoul’s pillow for the past four days, where Poison carefully placed it when he realized Ghoul wasn’t going to sleep there, since Ghoul didn’t remember them being a _them_. It smells like Ghoul, a little, and it’s so nice to have it back on his wrist that Poison feels stupid and petty for having taken it off in the first place. He’d rationalized it as Ghoul being as good as dead, but that’s a nauseating thought he kind of can’t believe he had. Either way, Ghoul notices when he comes into the main room, back in the booth he’s taken up near-permanent residence in, his observation skills apparently having not been dampened by reconditioning whatsoever.

“What’s that?” He says, eyes hovering on the bracelet.

Poison wraps his fingers in the beaded cuff again. “Weddin’ band.”

Ghoul looks up to meet his eyes, quirking his head a little to the side. It’s a gesture Poison’s getting used to seeing at this point. “To me?”

“Yeah,” Poison says, and to his own credit, he thinks, at least his voice only gets a little rough and it doesn’t shake like it did yesterday.

“Where’s mine?” Ghoul says, still in a calm, conversational tone, which is at least leagues better than the near-monotone from earlier in the week.

Poison laughs, a weak, halfhearted little thing, but his heart feels a bit less heavy. “You’re in luck, baby, I broke into th’ SCARECROW main offices t’ get it back for you. They took it off when they locked y’ up, I think. But I got it. D’you wan’ it back?” Keeping his tone light, it’s easy to pretend that he’s just been keeping it for Ghoul, and he remembers and will want it, so he can put it back on. In a second, though, Ghoul will say no and the illusion will shatter.

To his surprise, Ghoul seems to think about it for a moment, and then nods.

Poison swallows. “Okay,” he says, and dammit, the tremble is back. “I’ll go get it, ‘s in our room.” He turns, slowly, towards the back hallway, but after a step Ghoul says, “Wait.”

Poison stops, looking over his shoulder. Ghoul is looking at the tabletop, much like yesterday morning, but he’s tapping a finger against the stained vinyl. “Do you...do you have any pictures? Of us?”

Poison breathes an unsteady breath. “Y-yeah. Yeah, y’ have a camera, we’ve got kind ‘f a lot, ‘specially for out here. Gimme a sec, I’ll...be right back.” Then he turns, and walks, with clipped steps from trying both not to move too fast or too slow, to their room. 

As soon as he’s inside, out from under the steady, curious stare of this new Ghoul, he lets himself shake the jitters out by pacing skittishly around the space, carefully selecting and removing pictures from the walls, where there’s a veritable scrapbook of their life, their crew, their relationship, pinned with strategically placed tacks covering most of the dingy wallpaper. Then, he pulls out one of the few boxes they have in the corner, to pick out some of the photos that are really special, that they’ve tried to protect from the elements by storing them separately. Before he leaves the room, he reaches underneath his own pillow to get Ghoul’s commitment band for him, squeezing it in his palm. He carries his haul back to the table, where Ghoul’s still sitting patiently in the same spot. Poison makes careful stacks on the table, organizing the pictures so he won’t forget where they came from, and takes a deep breath.

“Okay.” Selecting the first polaroid from the top of the stack nearest his arm, Poison places it where they can both see it. It’s dated March 2021, in a firm hand — Jet’s. It’s the pair of them, pressed close, with hands shyly intertwined between them, rainbow marks shimmering clearly on Ghoul’s wrist and on the tips of Poison’s fingers. “This ‘s when we got t’gether,” Poison says, barely above a whisper. It’s hard to restrain himself from reaching for the photo, to touch it, not when they both look so happy, faces turned like they’d just barely been distracted from each other long enough to smile for the picture. Because they had. Poison remembers. “You kissed me first,” he murmurs, voice cracking, and swallows hard. Ghoul’s free hand in the picture is resting on Poison’s chest. 

He hastily slides the photo back towards himself, replacing it in the stack and selecting another one. This one has a date, small and in the lower corner, but the white space at the bottom is dominated by a caption. It’s not very descriptive, it just says “I love you”, with a messy heart next to it, but it’s in Ghoul’s dark, blocky print, and there are other hearts, clearly drawn by Poison, seemingly in response. Poison has to tear his eyes away from the writing to point to the actual picture. “This was when we had th’ Girl by ourselves for th’ first time. Jet an’ Kobra had a run, an’ it’d never been jus’ me an’ you with her b’fore, she’d been too little.” In the photo, a flash is illuminating where Poison is curled up on the threadbare couch with the baby Girl in his lap, both of them asleep. Poison’s head is resting on Ghoul’s shoulder, who’s holding the camera backwards to take the picture and grinning crookedly at the viewer. Poison blinks several times in succession to try and get rid of the stinging in his eyes. 

“An’ this one,” he says, louder, like that will keep his voice from shaking. “‘S from. Well, y’know.” He keeps it pinched carefully in his fingers for a second longer, before turning it around and sliding it towards Ghoul. “This one’s from when we got married.”

Poison can’t look at the photo anymore. He can’t, not when he looks so incandescently happy, clearly glowing from head-to-toe where he’s dancing with Ghoul. The photographer managed to capture the smile on Ghoul’s face, the soft, pretty one that Poison loves. Poison remembers their wedding like it was yesterday, just because he had been the happiest he’d ever been. He’d worked with Pony for months to get his outfit perfect, all ivory and pearls, the pair of them in the photo with their hair done up and surrounded by their friends and family and looking at each other like nothing else matters. Ghoul’s soulmark is visible right between his commitment band and where the cuff of his stiff jacket sleeve has slid up just a bit, hand in a loose fist curled around Poison’s back. Foreheads pressed together. Ghoul’s head tilted just so, only a fragment of a second away from leaning in for a kiss. It’s Poison’s favorite photo in their entire collection. He feels sick.

Ghoul is silent looking at the photo, but when he passes it back he presses his fingertips into Poison’s arm. Poison looks up to see Ghoul looking back, eyes steady and intense. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry I don’t remember.”

Poison opens his mouth to retort that he doesn’t need to be sorry, that it’s not his fault, but Ghoul cuts him off. “I know I’m fighting for you. All of you. In here, somewhere. The me in those pictures.” His fingers tighten slightly against Poison’s arm, even though his expression doesn’t change. “I know I am.”

Poison doesn’t know what to say to that, so he covers Ghoul’s hand with his own, squeezing tight. He slides the bracelet still in his free palm across the table, nudging it closer with his fingertip. “Here,” he says softly.

Ghoul picks it up delicately, like he’s scared it’ll break, even though it’s thread and plastic and has lasted for well over a year already even through claps and daily wear and tear, examining it carefully. His eyes flicker to Poison’s band, and then he hesitantly slides it onto his left wrist. It settles into place and Poison’s again struck with the uncomfortable sensation of expecting to see something that isn’t there. He’s never seen the beads on Ghoul’s wrist without the shifting colors underneath. He reaches out to grip Ghoul’s hand firmly. For the first time since they’ve gotten him back, Ghoul returns the gesture.

The next day is when things really go to shit, and that’s saying something, given how Poison’s last few weeks have been. It’s early in the afternoon when Poison hears the screech of tires outside, and that puts him immediately on edge. They aren’t expecting anyone, and all five of them are at home, in the Diner, so there’s no way it’s the ‘Am.

A quick glance through the window confirms his fears: there’s a dust cloud weaving closer, bright flashes of laser beams punctuating it. One colorful pickup truck in front — killjoys. Three plain white vehicles behind, a sedan and two motorbikes. This is not good.

“Gotta clap headed our way!” Poison yells in the vague direction of the back rooms, scooping his holster from the couch where he’d tossed it the night before.

Kobra appears in the doorway, already wearing his jacket. “How many Dracs?”

“Dunno,” Poison replies breathlessly, fingers fumbling on the buckle. He pulls it tight around his thigh and yanks his raygun out. Almost full charge, thank the Witch. “‘S a car an’ two bikes. After some ‘runners in a pickup, but they’re pretty much on a straight shot to th’ Diner, so ‘s gonna be our fight ‘n a few minutes.”

Jet shows up then, tugging the laces on his boots tight even as he’s walking, half-hopping over to where Poison is peering out of the bay window. “‘S jus’ routine then, yeah? As much as ‘t can be.”

“Right,” Poison says, fingers tightening and loosening on the handle of his zap. He works his jaw for a second. “Don’ like that they’re here though.”

Ghoul has been watching with interest from the Diner booth, running his fingers over the scar tissue on his cheek thoughtfully. “Where do you want me?” he asks, quietly.

Poison hesitates. Ghoul still hasn’t touched his raygun or jacket, and he only has a few vague memories at this point, place names and the occasional remembered slang term. Poison doesn’t know if muscle memory would be enough. “Can y’ stay here, with th’ Girl?” At the sound of her name, she peers around the doorframe, holding a yellow crayon in one hand and her careworn stuffed creature in the other (when Ghoul had asked about it, initially, she’d proudly presented it to him, placing it solemnly in his hands. “What is it?” he’d said, politely curious, as all of his questions had been. “I don’ know!” she’d replied, delighted. “You made ‘t for me.” She patted the thing’s head, beaming when Ghoul tilted his head and considered the plush with a little more interest).

Ghoul looks conflicted, but nods, and Poison really can’t help but smile at him. It widens when Ghoul’s mouth curves into a tiny smile in return. Progress.

Poison glances back out the window. “Okay,” he says, sharply. “Look alive.”

The clap is a mess before it even begins. The truck in front, the killjoy crew leading the chase, swerves hard before it gets to the Diner, tires skidding across the sand with a stuttering crunch, and almost rolls. It rebalances itself at the last second, stabilizing with a heavy bounce on its shock absorbers. The Draculoid convoy pulls to a halt a few feet behind, and as soon as the five Dracs have exited the car, and two more have dismounted from the bikes, the truck comes to life again with a roar and takes off, careening around the back of the Diner and leaving the three of them with seven Dracs now entirely focused on their new prey.

“Shit,” Poison hisses under his breath. “Fuck you, too.” Kobra shifts, arms stiff at his sides, raygun clenched in his hand. Jet is tensed on Poison’s right, visibly calm but thrumming with energy. 

The Dracs raise their guns, and they’re off for real. Poison dodges the first blast that zips over his shoulder, crackling through the air next to his ear. Kobra starts moving immediately, zap raised but closing the distance so he can engage close-quarters. Jet handles the two coming in from the right, exchanging fire back-to-back with Poison as usual.

Kobra yells something, and Poison turns his head instinctively, hissing when a close-miss pulse cuts a thin burn across his cheek. His shot finally hits its mark and one of the Dracs goes down, steaming from the throat.

“What?” he yells back in Kobra’s direction.

“Can’t get close enough!” Kobra shouts. He’s fiddling with his raygun, crouched behind the Trans Am for cover. “Need someone t’ distract ‘em.” Poison curses. That would usually be where Ghoul comes in.

They’re just going to have to make do. “Jet!” Poison calls over his shoulder, and without having to elaborate, Jet starts firing needling shots in the vague direction of the other Dracs, close enough to get their attention. Poison ducks to cover Jet’s other side, and takes down another Drac just as Jet catches one of the ones in the middle with two beams to the chest and shoulder. Only four more.

Kobra yelps, and Poison whips around to see Kobra turn his stagger into a spin, sweeping the Drac he’s fighting hand-to-hand off its feet and putting a laser beam through its head. He claps a hand to his right arm where it’s bleeding from right above the elbow, a few slow drops staining the sand below rusty crimson.

He’s been distracted for too long. Poison gets yanked backwards by the collar of his shirt, gagging when it cuts tight into his throat, and then he’s on the ground, raygun spinning out of his hand. He scrambles for it, trying to get his legs under him, but the Drac has its zapper aimed right at his chest and it’ll kill him before he can reach his weapon. 

Before the Drac can fire, though, someone kicks in the back of its knees and it buckles to the dirt. The sun overhead flashes off the bright green barrel of the raygun pressed to its head before it goes off and the Drac slumps.

Fun Ghoul smiles at him, through the fresh coat of dust on his face. “Pois,” he says, breathing hard, eyes wide, and holds out an arm to help him up. “You okay?”

Poison blinks. Ghoul’s eyes are bright, liquid with adrenaline and something else, zap in his hand. “Ghoulie,” Poison says, softly, and Ghoul beams, a spark that had been missing evident in everything about the way he’s carrying himself. Poison takes the offered arm and uses it to yank Ghoul down into the dust, tangling his fingers in the hair on the top of Ghoul’s head and kissing him, messy and desperate. Ghoul’s arm slides around his back to hold him up, and he kisses back just as fiercely, hand against Poison’s face.

“I missed you,” Poison gasps. Ghoul pulls him in close, cradling his jaw in both hands and pressing kisses everywhere he can reach.

“Knew you’d wait for me,” he whispers, breathless, and Poison kisses him harder, winding his arms around his neck.

Ghoul laces their fingers together when they part, resting their foreheads against each other. Poison squeezes, looking down at their joined hands. His breath catches. Ghoul’s soulmark is glimmering on his wrist again, exactly where it’s always been, iridescent brilliance glinting in the gaps between the beads of his commitment band. Poison glances up, eyes wide, and Ghoul smiles, weakly. “You’re so bright,” he says, voice trembling a little with emotion, brushing a hand through Poison’s red bangs, where they’ve fallen across his eyes. Poison laughs, catching on a sob, and crushes their mouths together again.

“Oh my god, could you guys ‘ve maybe picked a better time t’ make out?” Kobra’s panting between every other word and Poison looks up to see him grappling with one of the last two Dracs, trying to pin it to the ground as it struggles with its shooting arm twisted behind its back. Kobra glances in their direction briefly, just long enough to grin widely at Ghoul through the hair hanging all over his face. “We missed you, dude. Welcome back.”

Ghoul grins back. “Missed you guys, too.”

Kobra dispatches the Drac quickly and is on his feet again in a second, jogging over to where Jet is just finishing off the last one, to help him collect the dead Dracs’ masks to take them to the mailbox.

“‘M a terrible crewmate, should probably be helping them,” Poison mumbles, but he’s not sure he manages to quite sound repentant, nosing along the underside of Ghoul’s jaw. Ghoul kisses the top of his head, hiding his smile in his hair.

“‘Ve been pretty much useless for ‘bout a week, sunshine, if anyone should be helpin’ ‘s me,” he replies, but he also makes no move to get up, and tightens his arms around Poison’s waist.

“Awful,” Poison says, smiling into the side of his neck. He reaches up to ruffle Ghoul’s short hair teasingly. “You’re gonna have t’ grow this out again now, y’know.”

Ghoul laughs quietly, and squeezes Poison’s hand, sweeping his thumb back and forth across the knuckles. “Destroya, I missed you,” he says softly. He buries his face in the crown of Poison’s hair, and Poison can feel the hitch in his breath, matching the lump he feels in his own throat. He grips Ghoul’s arms, tight.

“I love you, sugar,” he whispers, lips pressed firm into Ghoul’s cheek. “Always gonna.”

“I know. I know.” Ghoul thumbs over the top of his hand again, voice wobbling a little. “I love you.” He murmurs it over and over, holding Poison tight and pressing kisses against the top of his head with every repetition.

When Jet and Kobra make their way over, Ghoul lifts his head to give both of them a watery smile. “Hey,” he says, still a little shaky, but he’s radiant with happiness, reaching a hand up to grab for Jet and Kobra’s hands.

“Shit, Ghoul, ‘s good t’ have you back,” Jet breathes, mouth tilting up in a smile that, if you didn’t know how to look for it, would belie how relieved he is.

“‘S really fuckin’ nice t’ be back,” Ghoul says, sounding choked up again, and he tugs on their joined hands until both of them kneel down so he can wrap them all in a massive group hug. “Saw Girly, proper an’ all, right ’fore I ran out. She was surprised I remembered anythin‘,” Ghoul says, roughly. “Witch, let’s not do that again.”

“Sounds good t’ me,” Kobra mutters somewhere above Poison’s head, and Poison laughs wetly against Ghoul’s shoulder. He rolls closer, hooking his chin into the notch of his neck.

“No argument from me, sweetheart.”


End file.
